


Feeling You Breathing Slow

by folie_aplusieurs



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Almost bath sex again, Angst, Christmas, F/F, Forbidden Love, Girls Kissing, Girls loving girs, I pretend to understand historical things, Ice Skating, Is this fluffy?, Kissing, Love Confessions, Pining, Princess Pete, because bath sex is fucking amazing, genderbent, maybe fluff?, merry christmas and happy holidays, okay there's some reference to Christmas but it's more winter than anything else, royal au, servant girl Patrick, they're girls, winter activities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_aplusieurs/pseuds/folie_aplusieurs
Summary: The young princess Petronella has everything against her upbringing and everything against the expectations keeping her from the pleasant company of her lady-in-waiting, Rikka. She might not have known the pretty maiden for long but she knows her well enough to know that she wants Rikka at her side, always. Being told "no" is not something Petronella is used to.The kingdom's finest rulebreaker, Petronella sets out to win over the maid in any way she can, first as a friend and then as a lover. Rikka already calls Petronella her "pretty Petal" -- anyone would be a fool to believe she means it in any manner other than endearing. And Petronella has always been a fool in love.A genderbend royal AU with a dash of ice-skating and snow day shenanigans. A bit of a short tale but also belonging to the same world as a longer AU that might be released sometime in the new year. Stubborn princesses, bashful maids, and the search for true love await!





	Feeling You Breathing Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you to everyone who set up this collection and allowed me to be part of it! This fic's a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, and a whole lot of self-gratifying bullshit. Thanks to hum-my-name for glancing this over and letting me know it's not all bullshit tho lmao.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thank you for checking this out! <3
> 
> *Title taken from Max's "Lights Down Low"

Sky and white and cold and ice. Petronella presses her hands against the window, blankets draping from her frame as she gazes at the winter world just beyond the glass, the snow coating the palace gardens and frosting the tops of village buildings outside the walls. She moves closer into the sharp dawn light, blankets trailing from her bed and hanging off her frame as she stares wide-eyed at the beauty before her. She’d awoken last night to the sound of snowflakes against the glass, the promise of a chill unlike anything she’d ever seen back in the other palace, back in the land of sunshine and warmer days. Snow was the only reason she came along with her parents to celebrate the winter festivities and it hasn’t disappointed.

As morning breaks across the blankets of white far below this window, she smiles, her breath brushing the glass before her with a first kiss pleasure. Her eyes ache from staring at the brilliance for so long but she can barely help herself; if she wastes her eyesight on this, she will be glad. If she freezes, it will be for the best. She could never complain about something so lovely.

But there is someone who may and it is her duty as a princess to go wake her for exactly this reason.

Petronella turns, already missing the sight when she’s facing the darkness of her room once more. Festivities to celebrate the next twelve days— Christmas, New Years and a collection of others Petronella can’t care to remember— will begin soon and the maids will arrive in hopes of waking her for it. Petronella intends not to be here when that happens. With only the dirtiest of glances at the silver and gold threaded dress laid out upon one of the chairs, she changes from her flimsy satin nightgown into an outfit more becoming of the chill outside— a somewhat simple look of wool and fur. Her brother’s old trousers— stitched into a more fitting size by her maidservant— and her younger sister’s favorite stockings. In the room, she feels to be overheating but one look at the outside has her nodding to herself in satisfaction. She leaves knowing she can face the cold.

She also leaves holding an extra hat.

There’s a system of tunnels hidden throughout the palace walls, something Petronella discovered within the first few moments of arriving. Slipping behind the holiday’s traditional green tapestries and feeling her way through the corridors, she eludes any guards stationed in the halls and makes her way to the less grand sleeping quarters further down. It’s a lonely little section of the palace, filled with none but servants and maids and Petronella’s best— and only— friend. Rikka. Previously a servant of the lowest standing and now Petronella’s closest confidante, the fiery little maiden was the first to promise Petronella a glance at snow should she accompany the monarchs here. And, well, it would be wrong not to share the moment with her.

Rikka’s still sleeping when Petronella slips into her room, light brown hair curling around her ears and forehead as she clutches one of the pillows close to her chest. She’s softer than Petronella in every way, light where Petronella’s dark, and, for just a heartbeat or two, Petronella can’t bring herself to move, caught in the easy cadence of Rikka’s breaths as she rests without care. Though Petronella’s the one with the golden brown coils in her hair, the one with dark lashes and burning eyes like every royal before her, Rikka’s always had more of a regal air. If she didn't understand the royal life so well, Petronella would envy Rikka her delicacy.

It’s a delicacy that breaks when Petronella tosses open the curtains and turns to face Rikka with a pleased smile stretching across her face.

“Rise and shine, princess,” she declares, mocking every maidservant she’s ever had. Rikka, thank god, has been freed of the cheerful habit but it’s still an irritation Petronella’s yet to forgive. “We’ve a busy day ahead.”

Rikka’s night clothes are sheerer than Petronella’s, a thin pale fabric that does little to hide the tempting expanse of her shoulder and back when she twists to escape the light. This, though, only catches Petronella’s eyes more. Young and plump and pale as the moon, every inch of Rikka is lovely.

“If that’s you, Petal, I swear…” 

_ Petal _ . Petronella preens at the nickname, as she always does.

“Watch your tongue,” she chides, tugging at Rikka’s sheets. They’re rougher than her own and she frowns, making a mental note to have some of her own blankets sent over this evening. “We’re not home but I am still your princess. And I am certain the warmth of the fireplace will barely reach the cells. Even if they choose the largest yule log they can.”

“You’re horrible.” Still, Rikka turns and blinks blearily at Petronella, resignation already flooding those winter blue eyes of hers. “Very well. I assume these plans of yours have nothing to do with your joining everyone else for the festivities tonight?”

“You know me so well.” Petronella says it like a joke but she means every word, smiling brightly as Rikka finally sits and rubs at her eyes. “It snowed last night, just as you said it would. I want to go explore and I’m going to need a guide.”

“You couldn’t have called a guard?” Rikka asks. Petronella shakes her head.

“They’d only have me in the garden and I want more than that. Remember what you told me about skating on ice with your family? I’m sure we could find what we need for that and then some frozen lake or pond.” She tugs once again at Rikka’s sheets, giggling to herself when Rikka groans at the loss of warmth. “Only you could teach me to do that.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Rikka says. She pauses, glancing at the untouched snow outside, and then nods gently to herself as she looks back into Petronella’s eyes. “But if you’ve requested it…”

She trails off but she’s already said the part that hurts, that stings, the bites like the chill Petronella’s been told of. Rikka’s only her friend because she’s been asked to be so; she only entertains her because to do otherwise would be a punishable act. Not that Petronella would ever punish Rikka for anything— something Rikka seems yet to understand. She follows every request like it’s a demand and answers every question, no matter how personal or invasive, as if a night in the cell awaits her should she refuse. Leftover habits from her time as a true servant, no doubt, but still something that has always bothered Petronella about their friendship. A friend is no good if it’s an ordained position.

Though, Petronella never asked Rikka to call her “Petal.” Nicknames are simple things but this one must mean something, yes? It must.

As Rikka leaves to dress, Petronella tries not to worry herself too much over things that could never be. Past princesses and queens have set a precedent that their ladies-in-waiting could not marry or attend to a family of their own lest it distracts them from their greater duties to the Crown. It’s an unofficial law that’s kept Rikka from suitors and lovers but it’s also kept Petronella from ever seeing if Rikka’s eyes fall on women the same way Petronella’s do, if she fancies the warmth of a breast beneath her touch or the sticky kiss passed between two pairs of painted lips. 

Such a partnership is not unheard of in the circles of nobles or peasants but Petronella is a princess and she knows her place as such. From a young age, she’s been told— warned, more like— of the princes available to her, the pricelessness of her hand in marriage should it be needed in times of unrest or political gain. Though she loathes it, she’s also come to accept it.

Rikka returns dressed in a manner similar to Petronella’s, warmly and fashionably, and her silken hair’s been tied back into a tight braid, not unlike Petronella’s more intricate styles whenever her family is hosting guests or visiting anyone with wealth. She stands in the doorway, two pairs of bladed shoes cradled in her arms.

“If we’re caught sneaking out, you know they’ll blame me,” she says, raising an eyebrow in Petronella’s direction. Though it hurts, Petronella lets go of all thoughts regarding Rikka as more than a friend and smiles back. 

“Well, we’ll simply have to be sure we’re not seen.” She glances Rikka over once more— because she’s the princess, because she can— and smiles. “Green? It’s nice. Makes your eyes brighter.”

Rikka blinks but looks down at her light green coat, pulled close around her. “I meant to wear it for tonight’s festivities but it’ll work for the cold, as well.”

Petronella doesn’t frown— she’s been taught to control her expressions better than that— but she does reconsider. The Twelve Days is the only time when ranks are more easily forgotten, Lords and Ladies and servants alike dancing in their homes and streets as if there’s no difference between them. Even her mother and father have been known to play along with such silly things, allowing maids and servants to spend the nights away from work. Perhaps Rikka wished for a moment to forget that she’s merely the princess’ hired friend; no matter how untrue Petronella wishes for that to be.

Petronella supposes she could offer to let Rikka stay. That’s what a friend would do, right? Give her the option to stay or go, to join or abandon. Then, she could truly see what Rikka does if given the chance.

The thought terrifies Petronella.

“We’ll be back in time,” she says instead. Her smile doesn’t waver; her smile never wavers. 

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Rikka asks. At her suspicious tone, Petronella’s smile steadies itself. She walks over, taking a pair of skates from Rikka’s hands.

“I think I saw a small lake on the carriage ride here,” she says, her voice glistening like the snow outside. Rikka sighs but the sound is shaped by her reluctant smile.

“Of course you did,” she says. When she shakes her head, brown locks fall free from her hair and brush against her cheeks. Neither girl moves to fix it though both twitch as if they mean to. Rikka turns before Petronella can consider her desires for too long, before she can drown in Rikka’s smile. “I’ll expect you to lead, then. And to explain to the other maids why I won’t be helping with the decorations. Oh! And to sneak me an extra plate from dinner tonight. I know the King and Queen will allow the feast for all but it feels strange if I go for seconds by myself.”

Rikka’s voice, teasing and blurred by rare chuckles between every few breaths, overwhelms Petronella like a storm of its own. If Petronella is Rikka’s Petal then Rikka is the wind tugging her from the safety of a stem, pulling her into the unknown realm of flying on her feelings. She closes her eyes, the first break in her so carefully controlled emotions, and lets out a soft breath.

Rikka’s still speaking, still chattering excitedly about all to come in the next twelve days. Feasts and Candlemas and the humor of this year’s Lord of Misrule. Petronella hears only the lilting tones of the words but not the meanings themselves. She could lose herself in Rikka’s voice, she swears.

“Petal,” Rikka calls. Petronella’s eyes open. They find Rikka first. They always do. “Come along, then. You won’t learn skating by just standing there.”

“I suppose not,” Petronella says. She smiles once more, schooling her expression and scolding herself for letting it fall. “Very well. Let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

Venturing into the aftermath of a blizzard is nearly exactly how Petronella had always wished it would be. Ice and cold and Rikka and laughter of “Petal, Petal, come look at this, Petal” fill the air as simple as snowflakes yet to fall. It’s not quite like all of Petronella’s dreams— there’s far less romance than that— but it’s close enough that the chill doesn’t go down as deep as it could.

The two had nearly been caught on their way out, Rikka’s obsessive personality calling her to stop and rearrange the holly and ivy pinned up on the walls, but Petronella had pulled her outside long before any guards could truly recognize them. Now, past the gardens and past the palace walls, they stand among blue-frosted trees and the pale expanse of the morning sky above.

Rikka bites her lip and smiles, her arm looped around Petronella’s as they both struggle to tie on their skates without having to dirty their bottoms with the cold snow on the ground. Though Petronella was the one who called this idea into existence, the one who woke Rikka and practically begged her to join, Rikka’s the one with eyes as excited as any child waking today. Petronella leans in closer to her, matching her smile with a wicked grin of her own.

“If I fall in, I’m blaming you.” Rikka’s words are smoke in the air, fog or steam or something else, and Petronella’s captivated by the sight. Rikka’s grip on her tightens as she tugs on her second shoe, balancing expertly on the blades. Her fingers slip and she grabs hold of Petronella’s wrist instead. Though her hands are like ice in the crisp air, Petronella swears the touch is a spark on her skin.

“You believe I won’t save you?” She asks teasingly as she ties up her own shoes. Rikka merely laughs and pulls away toward the pond, her eyes like blue crystals when she looks back.

“I’ll remind you which one of us has done this before. If anything, I’ll be the one saving you,” she giggles, covering her mouth with one hand as the other stretches out beside her in a search for balance. Petronella echoes the sound, following on unsteadier feet. They meet at the edge of the pond, watching and waiting to find who’s braver. For once, when Petronella looks over, Rikka doesn’t seem as shy as she usually does. Rikka looks up, smiles, and then moves forward onto the ice. 

Petronella holds her breath, stills her very heartbeat, but nothing cracks. Rikka’s as soft as the thin dusting of snow left across the icy pond, trailing through it with the ease of nature itself. She spins, laughing, and looks to Petronella with a hand held out. Beckoning, calling, waiting.

“Come with me,” she says. 

She needn’t say it. Petronella would follow her anywhere, wanted or not. 

She’s not as delicate as Rikka is, despite her slimmer frame and more careful upbringing. Her blades  _ clink  _ when she tests the strength of the ice beneath her, wobbling and threatening a snapped ankle or knee. Still, Rikka spins and laughs and Petronella would risk anything to be part of it. 

One foot and then the other. She feels herself scratching the fine surface as she skids across, emerging from the snow onto the ice with a suddenness that has her stomach rolling. Rikka doesn’t hesitate, moving swiftly to grab onto Petronella’s arm and slow her travels. Over the insistent thumping of her heart inside her chest, she hears Rikka’s heavy breaths.

“Don’t let me fall,” Petronella whispers. It’s a command from the princess; it’s a request from a friend.

Rikka’s breath against her neck, her sturdy hands around her arms, it’s answered like something else entirely.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.”

Petronella can’t weigh the words without dropping through the ice, she’s sure. It’s no matter, however. With a flick of her wrists, Rikka lets go and has Petronella gliding across the ice once again. Petronella spins in her attempt to keep her eyes on Rikka’s and she’s certain this is the moment she slams into the surface. Instead, Rikka smiles and Petronella’s heart focuses on something else entirely. 

Rikka skates towards her. Petronella meets her halfway. It’s easy to get the hang of it when she has such clear motivation.

The way Rikka catches her could be considered an embrace and Petronella has no intention in finding any word for it. Her pulse travels to her ears, blood rushing with the insistence that this is happiness. This is desire. This is love. 

They barely speak as they glide across the ice, back and forth and side by side. Every now and then, Rikka makes a joke or Petronella observes something new and fascinating about the cold. The moment feels like a secret and, brushing against Rikka with every chance she gets, the morning may never end. If Petronella could decree this hour to last forever, she would so in a heartbeat.

“You’re doing so well, Petal,” Rikka says suddenly, spinning around on the ice to face her. She’s a streak of green among the snow, a symbol of life on a blank canvas. Though Petronella’s enamored by the mysteries of the snow and chill, she’s more fascinated by Rikka’s ability to still outshine it all. She stops, too, content with just staring.

“I have a good teacher,” she says in a voice that belies her nerves. In the unknown world of winter, it’s easy for Petronella to forget who she is and what she is to do. Don’t show more emotion than necessary. Don’t fall for a simple servant girl. Suddenly, she can’t remember any reason for rules such as this.

Rikka’s smile falters at Petronella’s tone. She was never taught to keep such reactions a secret and it shows in the crease between her eyebrows.

“Is there something wrong?” She asks. Petronella’s heart pounds and she wants to look away but finds she can’t. It’s nothing new when Rikka’s involved but, today, it’s obvious to both of them. Rikka’s expression softens and, as sure as snow, Petronella knows she knows.

“Do you really want for me to say it?” Petronella asks slowly. The air, previously sparkling with fragments of ice and the kiss of the sun behind sheer clouds, stills around them and Petronella, like ice, is too scared to properly break through it. 

_ Rikka, you’re the most amazing girl I’ve ever met _

She could say that but those words feel too soft. Surely, Rikka already knows? Surely, that would be too undeserving of such sudden panic?

_ If I’m your Petal, you’re the whole flower. You’re the sun. You’re the forest. _

Petronella thinks in terms only Rikka ever understands but there’s no way of knowing when these abstract thoughts go too far. These sudden bursts— previously locked away, now freed by the carelessness of ice and cold— have her trying to stumble back. She slips, her feet losing their grip on the ice, and she prepares for the unforgiving crash of drowning.

Rikka’s there, though, with soft hands on Petronella’s arms, steadying her the way she always does.

_ Rikka _

_ I love you _

Petronella doesn’t move away like she knows she does. She moves closer, boldened by Rikka’s own refusal to let go. She places a hand on Rikka’s waist. It’s light and Rikka could move if she wants to. She could leave and Petronella would never stop her, no matter how much it might burn.

“We’re not supposed to think of ranks or positions today so, please, do me a favor and listen to me as a friend. If you can consider me as such.” She pauses, her hand trailing down to rest on Rikka’s hip. She’s touched her before, helping each other dress or playing like friends as they tackle each other with raucous laughter and frowned upon tickle fights. But it’s never been like this. So silent despite the waking birds and heaving breathes. So intimate despite the layers of clothes and rank between them. So warm despite everything. She looks at Rikka. She can’t help smiling, no matter how afraid she is. “I’m not supposed to understand love and, I suppose, I’m not quite sure I do. But if you want a confession, that’s the one you’re getting. It’s the only way to describe how I feel for you right now.”

Rikka’s breath skips.

“You can’t mean that. You won’t or- you’re not allowed to, you… you just don’t.” With every word, Rikka sounds more afraid. With every word, she holds tighter onto Petronella. Petronella hardens her own grip and Rikka still won’t move, frozen to the spot with eyes as wide and blue as the pond they’re standing on. With her free hand, Petronella covers one of Rikka’s, frowning at the ice she feels beneath her touch.

“I do. I promise it. I do.” 

Rikka’s breaths come quicker, harder, fog forming and fading as quickly as Petronella’s past uncertainties. 

“Petal, please.” Rikka’s voice is a whine, a plea, but Petronella can’t understand what she’d be begging for. She’s too lost in her own imaginings, her fantasies of how this day’s supposed to go.

“Rikka.” She says. Her heart’s in her throat and her eyes sting and Rikka still won’t move away. “Rikka. My Rikka.”

She pulls Rikka closer and closer until they’re chest to chest and she can feel their hearts beating as one, the same rhythm and the same pace. Rikka’s hand falls from Petronella’s arm and to her hand, holding on like she’s frightened she’ll fall. Though her hand is cold— so cold, so impossibly cold— Petronella still burns at her touch, still shudders and longs for more. Their eyes meet— sapphire and gold— and Rikka’s gaze reflects everything Petronella’s feeling. It stops Petronella’s breath in her throat as suddenly as it seems to stop time itself.

Rikka’s lips twitch with anticipation and, this close, Petronella can make out the cracks in the dry skin of it. She can see everything— little scars on her nose and eyebrow, sparkles in her eyes, melting snowflakes on her skin. What she can’t see is a reason to stop. 

So she doesn’t.

Their lips collide and crash like every fear Petronella’s ever had. Rikka gasps but she doesn’t move back, pushing closer as if the whole thing was her idea all along. She’s cold from the hour in the snow, warm from the breath she sighs against Petronella’s mouth, and Petronella can’t get enough of it. Winter is the way she holds onto Rikka for warmth and comfort, the way she feels Rikka do the same to her. Winter is the soft give of lips beneath her own, the snowflake flutterings of Rikka’s pulse when Petronella places a hand along her neck, tilting her chin up and bringing her even closer than before. Winter is the way they fit together, ice crystals forming to create the perfect storm.

But winter is also the way they break apart, the foggy breaths between them as Rikka pushes away, shivering and shuddering as she does. 

“I’m sorry.” She apologizes without explaining what part she’s sorry for. “We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“I love you, though,” Petronella says. It’s all she can say; it’s all that makes sense. “I love you.”

Rikka’s red-faced and further than before. Why is it that she now learns how to hide what she feels?

“I’m your servant,” she says, the words like shards of ice as they scrape free from her throat. “You can’t.”

“But I do!” If Petronella had more faith in her sturdiness, she’d race to Rikka’s side and pull her close again. But the ice is slick and her fears are back and Rikka’s quicker, anyway. “Forgive me for saying it but I love you. I love you so much I can’t stand it. You don’t have to say the same but won’t you at least let me love you?”

If anyone were to see her now, the esteemed Princess Petronella, they’d be aghast of how she begs for her affections to be understood. But she wouldn’t take it back, wouldn’t even imagine the thought. Emotions blizzard through her body, leaving her hot and cold at once, and she can melt at any moment.

And if Petronella is the blizzard then Rikka is the sky, impossible to understand in all its beauty and greatness.

“Don’t ask me that. You’re my Petal, my friend… Isn’t that enough? Hate me for it but I cannot accept your love. You and I, our feelings don’t matter to those in control of our futures,” she says in a trembling breath. “Tell me you’re lying or that this is a joke but don’t tell me you love me. Don’t ever tell me that. It’s crueler than you could ever know.”

But Petronella does know. She has known. She was just hoping Rikka would be willing to play pretend.

Her heart cracks like ice as she forces a smile. 

“I already asked you. I already told you,” she says even as Rikka looks away. “I can’t take that back.”

Rikka’s silent and that’s worse than any storm. Petronella shuts her eyes before tears can fall, trembling like the pathetic petal she is. A flower is beautiful and worth looking at. A petal is merely a memento of something greater.

“I’m sorry,” Rikka says, so much closer than she was before. There’s hesitation in her voice but not in the way her arms are suddenly around Petronella, holding her as no princess should ever need to be held. “I’m so sorry. If I could change it, I would.”

Though she’s kind, the press of her lips— full and sensuous— to Petronella’s cheek is crueler than anything Petronella might have said today. She doesn’t waste time teasing Rikka with promises of what changes she’ll make with her implied powers and she doesn’t press for more rejection.

“Let’s just go back,” she says, sinking into the warmth of Rikka’s body. “I don’t know if I’d like to be in the cold for much longer.”

~ ~ ~

Petronella knows they’re lost long before she’s willing to admit it. It’s the ache of her muscles, though, that has her finally pausing and looking around for help. She and Rikka have been trying to find the garden gates they escaped through for the better part of an hour and the second wave of the blizzard is no help, sheets of white falling upon them without remorse. It covers the trail they’d taken away from the palace— the grand structure hidden by its own walls and the hills around it— and Petronella’s beginning to lose her temper.

The fact that Rikka’s behind her, sniffling every so often and offering assistance, doesn’t help. If Petronella had her way, she’d have been able to run off to her room the second the rejection settled into her bones. She’d cry for the rest of the day and take her anger out on whatever poor maid Rikka would no doubt send in her place. But Rikka’s the only one here and she’s the only one to blame.

“We can always just go through the front gates,” Rikka suggests softly, her teeth audibly chattering against each other. “Your parents will be upset, yes, but I can take the blame if it means we can warm up quicker.”

It’s the plan Petronella was considering but now that Rikka’s said it, it sounds awful.

“They’ll have you sit out during the celebrations tonight and I’ll be the one dealing with your bad attitude after it,” Petronella says, arms crossed over her chest. She’s cold, too, but she’s also more stubborn. “We’ll find the hidden exit and be back inside before anyone’s noticed.”

“How about before anyone freezes to death?” Rikka mutters to herself. Petronella grits her teeth as she starts the steady march forward but says nothing.

Nothing, until Rikka stumbles a few minutes later and bumps into her back.

“Oh, will you watch where you’re going?” Petronella spins to glare at her, feeling only a flash of guilt at Rikka’s stunned eyes before it’s eaten away by the sight of her red and swollen lips. The cold only makes the color brighter as Rikka licks at them again and again, drying them out into a horrible shade. “We don’t have time for you to be stumbling about like this.”

“But we have time for you to lead us around like a pair of headless chickens,” Rikka bites back, half-bent over from the chill but still glowering just as harshly as if the argument was happening in their chambers. “Might I remind you that you’re the one who got us lost? Don’t take that frustration out on me.”

As if the trek through the snow is all Petronella’s upset about. If Rikka truly believes that, she’s more cold-hearted than Petronella could have ever thought.

“Well, I don’t see you helping,” she snaps. Rikka keeps glaring, keeps scowling, and Petronella didn’t want that today. She wanted a morning of exploration with her favorite friend and then an evening of festivities— also with her favorite friend. But Rikka seems set on ruining that, just like she ruined Petronella’s confession, and it’s no fair that she gets to look at Petronella like she’s the one at fault. 

“I gave you my opinion but you didn’t listen. But if you’d like to hear it again, then—”

“You’re a horrible friend,” Petronella cuts in. Her voice shakes but she’s sure it’s just the cold, just the ice wrapping itself around her throat. “Not many maids become so close to a princess, you know. You take me for granted and you don’t appreciate what we have. You should feel lucky that I want to spend any time with you.”

“Me? What about you?” Rikka asks, her voice trembling, too. Just the cold, Petronella thinks; just the chill. “You call me your maid but then you push for more. You treat me like a friend but then you tease me with these things about love and care. You hurt me but you don’t’ even realize.”

“I hurt you?” Though it’s blizzarding around them, Petronella only feels the heat of shame and anger. “You’re the one pushing me away! I meant everything I said. You’re the one who made up these excuses about how I shouldn’t say those things or how—”

“Because we can’t!” Rikka tosses her hands to the side and stands up straight, looking more lost than a blossom in winter. “ _ I  _ can’t. My job is to serve you, that’s all. It hurts enough to know that’s all we can be— master and servant. Do you imagine I want a life where your care is fleeting? Where you love me only to be married off some years later? Me, forgotten and tossed away? Because that’s what happens,  _ Petronella _ . And I would rather be a servant than a memory.”

“Fine.” Petronella burns with a fire she only ever feels when someone dares to tell her what to be. It’s the flame and fury of having her life dictated by someone else’s command, her entire being written out by someone else’s hand. Rikka was never the one to do that. She always let her pretend that her status meant nothing, that she could live a life as Petal, someone free from the binds of Petronella. But everyone turns, it seems. Everyone sees Petronella and that’s all they’ll ever see. “Then do me a favor. Be a servant but don’t you dare be my friend.”

Her hands are on Rikka before she’s thinking about it but, even then, it’s just a moment. She shoves, hard, and Rikka falls into the snow with a pathetic yelp, failing to catch herself as she collapses back entirely.

She stares up, wounded, but Petronella refuses to feel the guilt that Petal would.

“Find your own way back,” she says and she’s not crying, she swears, she’s not crying over a simple servant girl. “Or, better yet, don’t come back, at all.”

Petronella never understood why her family has always been so adamant she never truly fall in love; now, she sees it’s only weakness. Even with her anger blooming beneath her skin like the holly and ivy inside her home, she still aches to wipe the pained look from Rikka’s face.

Pathetic.

She turns and hurries off, wiping away the stray tears that had fallen from her eyes during the fight. She expects Rikka will follow but she doesn’t look back to check, too afraid of what she’ll do if Rikka’s crying, too.

It’s cold and her limbs feel frozen when she finally makes it to the front gates— because Rikka was right and this is the closest to an apology that Petronella will give. She pauses at the front, waits for Rikka to gloat, but then storms forward when Rikka won’t even grant her that.

“Princess Petronella?” A guard greets them with wide eyes. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sure you have been,” Petronella says, sparing a glance toward the undisturbed snow, unbeaten by horse’s hooves or guards’ hurried steps. “Have any guests arrived?”

“Not yet,” the guard says. “But the King did ask for your council on which entertainment is to be provided this year.”

“Oh, they’re never really entertaining,” Petronella groans, covering her face with her hands as she recalls failed Christmas entertainment in the form of dancers and plays. In her pain, she forgets her anger at Rikka and turns to ask her opinion. “What do you prefer?”

This silence isn’t Rikka’s stony silence, though, and Petronella drops her hands to stare at the place Rikka should be. 

She’s greeted only by the white blanket of a blizzard growing more intense with each passing moment. Her heart stops and her breaths pause. She clutches at the fabric of her cloak— a habit picked up from Rikka— and stumbles away from the guard’s questions.

“Rikka?” She calls out into the snow and ice. “Rikka!”

But Rikka doesn’t respond.

~ ~ ~

Despite everyone’s infuriating insistence that Rikka’s irretrievably lost in the storm, Petronella puts up enough of a fight to have a small group of guards following her back into the blizzard in hopes of finding the one lost servant girl. She rushes ahead on one of the horses they were able to saddle up and prepare for her, her pale cloak flying out behind. She pushes harder, faster than any of the others following but she pays no mind to how they shout for her to be safe.

“If you tell me to slow again, I’ll leave the rest of you behind,” she calls back with a tone that would make any man pray she isn’t speaking to him. “Your orders are to find her. I expect results.”

Petronella doesn’t like resorting to royal tactics, orders and demands, but everyone else makes it’s so hard for her to even pretend she can be different. Guards and servants won’t obey unless she holds her head high and keeps her tone sharp. Her family and other nobles won’t grant her the chance to speak unless she does so with the command of someone raised to be heard. She’s heard the hated whispers about her cockiness, her abuse of power whenever it suits her, but that’s only because no one ever listens. Oh, they may obey but they don’t hear the voice behind the words. Not her parents. Not her friends. Not her  _ Rikka _ .

But now Rikka’s lost and Petronella would give anything to take her past cruel words back.

She arrives at the lake before any of the guards, her chest heaving as she scans the area for her chosen maid. A flash of golden hair or the trill of singing Petronella pries from her whenever she craves something lovely; none appear.

With a cry like ice cracking, Petronella tugs on her horse’s reins and prepares to run through the forged trail once more. Images of Rikka lying cold in the snow or lost on the path flutter through her mind like the snowflakes she thought she loved and her own blood runs cold. 

Before her horse has fully turned around, a small voice fills the air.

“Petal? Is that you?” 

It’s as weak as the blizzard strong but Petronella hears it all the same. She drops from her horse in a rather undignified fashion, stumbling into the snow and tripping across the path down to where she heard Rikka’s voice. Already, now that she knows Rikka’s safe, she settles into the temper she’s known for, the anger her parents claim will be her downfall should she ever rule.

“And you call me horrible!” She cries out in a shrill voice. Her hair, long undone by the wind and rush of riding her horse, falls across her face in messy whisps and her hands tremble in their riding gloves. Rikka’s still impossible to see in the cold but Petronella shouts for her anyway. “You think you can just leave me without a word or explanation? That you can dismiss yourself from my presence and not expect a consequence? You’ll be in your chambers all night for this, I promise. And you won’t see a second of the celebrations for all the… the  _ worrying  _ you put me through. My god, Rikka, did you really think that— Rikka?”

She pauses only when she sees Rikka, at last.

She’s near the edge of the lake, seated in the snow as if the cold can’t possibly bother her. Her arms wrap around her legs, tucked up to her chest, and she stares out at the ice with eyes just as chilled. She’s the image of a maiden on a spring day, coated in her green fabrics and shaded with the reds of a dainty blush. The green, though, is only a sign that everything else has gone grey and blue and white; the red on her skin is from the wind-whipped stains of a winter storm.

“Rikka,” Petronella says again, falling to her knees beside her friend. “Rikka, did you not hear me? I need to take you home now.”

Petronella need only see the ice collecting on Rikka’s lashes, the stiffness of her fingers, to tear off her own cloak and toss it over Rikka’s shoulders. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but she ties and tucks it around her anyway. Rikka won’t move, won’t speak, and Petronella fills with dread when she feels the icy touch of Rikka’s fingers as she tries to tug her to her feet.

“Rikka.” Petronella pulls away only to scrub at her own eyes before frustrated tears can fall, the fears that her friend may be ill or harmed or worse. Rikka only stares, her soft blinks the only sign she’s alive at all. “Rikka,  _ please _ .”

At last, Rikka looks up. 

“I wanted to do it over again,” she says, pulling her hands away from Petronella’s. Petronella frowns at her for too many reasons— for being a fool and running away, for sitting in the cold, for never making any sense— and the returning smile she receives from Rikka twists her heart in impossible shapes. Slowly, Rikka looks away and points, trembling, at the hazy image of the frozen lake. “That’s where you kissed me.”

Selfishly, Petronella feels the flare of rejection heating her chest at Rikka’s words, a fire that was only dimmed by the overpowering fear of losing her best friend in a manner far more worse than an unwanted kiss. She shakes her head, freeing more curls and tangles, and tries once more to bring Rikka to her feet.

“You’re being impossible and childish,” she scolds. She sounds like her own mother, repeating words she’s been told all her life. “Come home with me, Rikka.”

“Home. Of course.” Rikka seems more than dazed, head dropping to the side as she echoes Petronella’s request. Though she agreed to go, she stays put, whining and yanking her hand back when Petronella tries again to tug her along. “But, first. Can you do it again?”

“Again? You’re not making any sense and I’m not in the habit of making deals. What do you want from me? Can it wait?” She pauses, looking into Rikka’s pleading eyes. She wants to understand but she never can, can she? Not until Rikka presses frozen fingers to Petronella’s lips, a touch so soft it’s almost like a kiss. Petronella’s eyes widen and she pulls back, certain the cold has done in her mind, too. “ _ Oh _ .”

It’s the chill, the snow and ice. It’s the shame of their fight and Rikka’s attempts to make the malice go away. She’s always been a simple girl, hasn’t she? She’s always rushing into solutions without wondering what pains they’ll bring.

But isn’t Petronella just the same? Her breaths like blizzards of their own as they spin cold ice throughout her body, Petronella moves towards Rikka again. She’s closer this time, though. Rikka looks back and Petronella jealously watches the way the wind plays with her hair, the way snow melts against her cheeks. How can something as simple as weather have greater intimacy with Rikka? Petronella’s a princess, an heir; she should be allowed whatever she wants.

This, though, is not about her wants. This is about Rikka’s request and the aching way she reached for Petronella’s lips. Closer. Petronella moves closer and, suddenly, she can’t feel the snow anymore. 

Rikka’s hands circle her waist, her face betraying nothing of her actions. She lifts her head and looks at Petronella, almost daring her to follow through just as much as she’s begging her. Want shines in her sky-blue eyes.

“Petal, please.”

Just like before, just once more, Petronella leans in and kisses her. Eyes shut, hands fumbling for each other, chests pressing together with each broken breath between each ice-cold kiss, Petronella kisses her and it’s just as it should have been the first time she tried. She pushes forward until Rikka’s leaning back, protected from the snow only by Petronella reaching around to steady them with a hand pressed against the ground. Gasping and pleading, she swears she feels Rikka melting against her this time.

“Like that?” Petronella asks when they pull apart, foreheads pressed together as they catch their breaths. 

Rikka’s eyes are shut but her voice is fond. “Exactly like that.”

~ ~ ~

Petronella’s mixed confusion and desires fail to fade even as she ushers Rikka into her room. They’d pulled apart before the guards thought to catch up with them and Petronella had once again laid out her commands: tell the other servants to prepare a warm bath for their return. Rikka’s half-asleep as Petronella helps her into the room but perhaps it’s for the best. 

Petronella’s used to odd looks and gossiping maids; Rikka’s always been softer than her in every way.

The bath is ready and steaming by the time they arrive, a slice of heaven among the garish decorations littering the room. Maids and servants linger by the doorway to remind Petronella of her attendance at the feast in a few hours. She doesn’t answer, choosing instead to shut and lock the door in their faces.

Alone, at last, she turns to Rikka. She’s more awake now, if just as dazed as before, and leans against Petronella’s bed posts with a tired look. She sways and Petronella crosses the room in time to catch her before she falls.

“I think my fingers need to warm up before I can help you with your bath,” Rikka says, glancing at the hot water. Petronella looks away and resists the urge to kiss her again. Rikka hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t explained the last one. As everyone tells her, Petronella must learn patience.

“I’m not the one who sat in the cold forever,” she says, filling her voice with a soft teasing tone. “The bath is for you. I’m going to take care of you.”

_ Just like I should have before _

Guilt gnaws at Petronella as she guides Rikka towards the bath, helping her to untie and remove the cloak only to pause, breath frozen, as she realizes she’ll need to help her undress the rest of the way.

“I… That is, do you want me to… I can go or…” Petronella struggles to speak, a phenomenon only possible when Rikka’s around. And Rikka, dazed as she is, looks up to Petronella as if daring her to back away now.

“Our ranks mean nothing for this season,” she says, hooking her still cold fingers into the hem of Petronella’s top, pressing chilled knuckles against her collarbone. “I’ve undressed you hundreds of times. I’ll help you again if you join me in the bath. I’m afraid I might fall asleep in it if you leave me alone.”

Petronella’s mouth dries. “Of course.”

Unlacing and removing Rikka’s layers is something Petronella has only ever experienced in dreams, in fantasies her mind concocts at night when she’s alone with her own desires and lusts. Dark green slips away and Rikka’s paler than Petronella had planned for, smooth and plump like the angels depicted in the art of their old palace. She covers herself with her hands and arms subtly, one hand resting near her lap as her other plays with her hair in an attempt to hide her chest with her arm. Petronella, dressed less traditionally, is easier to expose and, side-by-side, they’re entirely different and still entirely the same. Dark and light; royal and servant— they’re still just two women staring at each other in ways forbidden.

“You’re lovely,” Petronella says, guiding Rikka into the bath. Rikka hisses at the heat but lowers herself easily, looking up expectantly as Petronella does the same. It’s a tight fit, the two nearly pressed against each other in obscene ways, but Petronella selfishly would never have it any other way.

“You’re a flatterer.” Rikka blushes and looks away but there’s no denying the smile on her face. Petronella smiles at it but her own grin fades when Rikka’s does. Petronella recognizes that look, the closed off eyes and shallow smiles. It’s one that says Rikka’s tying away her thoughts, latching them somewhere deeper in her mind— somewhere she may never think to look again.

Petronella panics, her own mind doing the opposite. She drags up the memory of kissing Rikka in the snow, the clash of warm and cold and want and need. She immerses herself in everything she said, everything she left unsaid. She begs for a chance to repeat it all again.

Water splashes out from the bath as she urges forward, carried only by her impulse as she takes Rikka’s hand. It’s warmer now, thank god, and she fits herself between Rikka’s parted legs to look intently into her eyes.

“You asked me to do something in the snow and I did it. Now, grant me a favor.” A loophole in the ranking of celebrations, the exchange of favors rather than commands. “Tell me why you asked me to kiss you.”

“I—” Rikka doesn’t look away though every piece of her tells Petronella she wants to run and hide. Petronella tightens her hold on Rikka’s hand, moves closer than before. Rikka’s eyes widen but then settle into a gentle resignation. “I asked you because I realized that I shouldn’t have said no.”

Rikka’s other hand, hidden beneath the water, lifts and opens. From her palm, a small rose petal flutters to the surface. Petronella stares as it spins, her own head aching with attempts to understand.

“I can’t give you a promise that this will last longer than the twelve days,” Rikka continues. “But we can still celebrate and be close while it’s allowed. No one pays attention to strange behavior at the parties so... I can say yes, but only until the Twelfth Night.”

It’s not as much as Petronella wants; it’s not as little as Petronella deserves.

“And if you decide you don’t want it to end?” Petronella asks, shaking and whispering. “What then?”

“This is all I can give you.” Rikka turns her head, her cheeks still so pink as she looks away. “Consider it your Christmas miracle.”

“The snow and skating were supposed to be the miracles, you said,” Petronella responds, shutting her eyes. It’s not that she’s pretending to consider her options, she already knows what she’s going to say. No, she’s preparing for whatever comes after. When she opens her eyes, Rikka’s looking back at her with something knowing in her gaze. “But okay.”

And then Rikka’s lips connect with hers, as suddenly as if she’s been waiting twice as long as Petronella for this..

Rikka presses forward as Petronella pulls back to grant them space, her hands cupping Petronella’s chest as she kisses her messily and desperately, the two touching in any way they can. 

“Promise me this won’t change anything.” Rikka’s breath is hot against her mouth, her nails digging into Petronella’s skin as she pleads.

“Nothing ever could.” The words— the lies— are barely out of Petronella’s mouth before Rikka’s kissing her again with so much authority Petronella forgets who’s royal and who’s servant. Waves of water crash on top of them as they move, writhing with warm slick skin sliding against each other with each breath— Petronella swears to herself that, no matter what Rikka says, she won’t ever let this go.

She pushes Rikka back, reclaiming control for herself and straddling her hips. She makes quick work of connecting their lips again, losing herself in the steam circling the air around them. One hand on Rikka’s breast, her lips move down to suck at her neck in a manner that’s almost violent. She bites and kisses there for a moment, Rikka’s hands twisting in her dark curls as she gasps and sighs. 

“We don’t have time, Petal, we have —  _ ahh—  _ your parent’s Christmas Eve celebrations. The feast,” Rikka whimpers as Petronella’s hand trails down her soft stomach until her fingers brush against the more coarse hair between her legs. 

“Oh, forget the feast.” Petronella brings her hand back up to cup Rikka’s cheek, turning her to meet her eyes once more. Rikka lifts her own hand to cover Petronella’s; Petronella shudders at the touch. “All I want to celebrate is you.”

Petronella knows she’ll be in trouble for it— that the King and Queen will recite manners and hospitality at her until her ears hurt. She knows she’ll have to make up the absence in the coming days of the festivities, the games and gambling and silliness. She knows she’d usually hate every moment.

But she also knows that this year, at least, she’ll have Rikka by her side. And, no matter what the future holds, she’s already had a taste of this girl.

She’s never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don't know a thing about historical Christmas celebrations. Sorry, I tried.
> 
> My tumblr is folie-aplusieurs. Feel free to come talk to me over there <3


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